


What Are Friends For

by ribbonelle



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Double Penetration, M/M, Multi, Sticky Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbonelle/pseuds/ribbonelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bulkhead was generally at peace with the world, despite its trials and tribulations, but he could thank the universe for giving him these mechs. The Constructicons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are Friends For

**Author's Note:**

> this is easily the most self indulgent thing i have ever written in my life, ever. bulkhead is my favorite in TFA, and i loved his brief friendship with the constructicons so so much ~~before everything went to shit~~ SO i decided to just write them being buddies that take pleasure in one another
> 
> so lets pretend 'Rise of the Constructicons' was extended for like a week (or forever, if it was up to me) and these guys hung out so much. they hung out a lot. they were BFFs.   
> i'm sorry for awkward positioning, mistakes in characterization, the title, god, the title, and just bc i was incredibly selfish with this one haha

Bulkhead was happy.

He was always generally feeling at ease, content, at least, despite the slag that had happened ever since they crashed onto this weird organic planet called Earth. But he had met Sari. He would have rather spent his whole existence dealing with space bridges, of course, but even with the Decepticon threat and the constant worry of their future, Bulkhead wasn’t terribly put off by everything.

But currently, he was happy. Ecstatic, his circuits zinging with euphoria, his spark light and airy in his chest.

He really liked being in the company of his newfound friends; the Constructicons; because he actually felt like he belonged. He had no qualms of being in Optimus Prime’s maintenance crew, none at all, but with Mixmaster and Scrapper, he wouldn’t ever be reprimanded, there was nothing that he did that was considered wrong.

Granted the two mechs had terrible manners and appalling behaviour, but Bulkhead liked them, and they seem to like Bulkhead in return. So it didn’t matter.

They reminded him a little of how it was back on Cybertron, back in his hometown, and Bulkhead reveled in the comfort of familiarity.

He swallowed the remnants of oil in his mouth, thick and slick against his tongue. Flattening the barrel in his hands, Bulkhead made sure to toss the metal into a nearby dumpster. The same couldn’t be said for his friends.

“Seriously guys, the dumpster isn’t even that far! Give the city some respect, will you?” he reprimanded, as Mixmaster and Scrapper simply sniggered at him.

Scrapper did pick up the barrel-turned-ball he tossed earlier nevertheless, as Mixmaster smirked, “Relax, Bulky. What are ya now, the local garbage truck?”

Elbowing the cement mixer, Bulkhead snorted, “Considering the fact that we’ve been needing to clean up the city _every time_ we get into a brawl with the Decepticons? I might as well be. Don’t make my life harder, mech.”

“Okay, okay. For you,” Mixmaster relented, and Bulkhead squeezed him into a grateful one-armed hug before letting go.

It was way past midnight, this particular part of Detroit almost deathly quiet, and they had the streets all to themselves. It was enough to make Bulkhead feel giddy. Good atmosphere, great company. All they needed was just quality oil to make the night perfect, and Bulkhead knew just where to obtain such a thing.

He ran a few steps further from Mixmaster and Scrapper, turning around with a big grin, “Race you guys to the docks!” With a little leap, he transformed, crashing onto the empty road before his tires spun wildly, his altmode skidding to drive forward.

“Hey, no fair!!” he heard one of the Constructicons yell and the tell-tale noises of transformation, and Bulkhead merely chuckled. He was elated. It was as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. The tar was warm under the rubber of his tires, and the wind against his windshield felt glorious. He wasn’t even going that fast, but there was velocity, and there were no obstacles in his way, and it was a sense of freedom Bulkhead hadn’t experienced in ages.

Upon reaching the harbour, Bulkhead swerved himself to park next to the edge of the water. He kept his engine in idle as he waited for Mixmaster and Scrapper, sighing in contentment. The breeze was lovely and it was peacefully quiet, and Bulkhead felt at ease.

Eventually, the rumbling of his friends’ engines became louder, noting their arrival. Bulkhead snickered to himself, finally transforming, flicking the kibble on his back a few times in a leisurely stretch, “What took you so long? I thought I was gonna rust out here.”

Scrapper chuckled, responding with a fairly rude gesture but Mixmaster…

Mixmaster seemed to be at a loss of words. His mouth was open as if stunned, and Bulkhead’s cheeky expression quickly turned into concern, “…Mix?”

“We gotta tell him. Frag it, Scrapper, tell him. You know I ain’t good with words like you, but I can’t take this, tell him or I will.” The cement mixer had looked away from Bulkhead, opting instead to roughly nudge his friend, almost desperately.

For some reason, dread was heavy in Bulkhead’s chest, “Guys?”

Scrapper made a frustrated sound after his initial surprise, staring at Mixmaster, and rebooted his vocalizer eventually to address Bulkhead, “It’s nothin’, Bulky, Mix here is glitching. But uh. There’s been something we’ve wanted to ask you for a while. Something a little weird, probably, but mech, if you ain’t interested, we can just forget things ever happened, yeah?” Scrapper’s smile was nervous, his hands lifted, “Alright? Like we’d really still wanna hang out with you, even if you don’t say yes. Okay? We cool?”

Bulkhead lifted an optic ridge in response, folding his arms, “Yeah, but what’s the question? What did you wanna ask me?”

Another bout of hemming and hawing, with Mixmaster glancing at Scrapper and Scrapper himself looking fairly conflicted, till he finally spoke up, “Do you wanna frag?”

It was so bizarre for Bulkhead, so unexpected, that he was momentarily stunned as Mixmaster piped up at the consequent silence, arms waving around, “It don’t have to be a regular thing, I mean if you want we could only do it once and never again, or the other way around, ya know? Or if you don’t want to at all hey then that’s cool too, you’re our friend and we love ya and we ain’t gonna push you into anything. Frag, mech, we don’t gotta do nothing! Just a thought. Sometimes mechs wanna clang their buddies, that’s all, nothin’ too intense or whatever—“

“Wait, wait,” the Autobot finally responded, looking quite bewildered, “Have you guys even done that? You’ve just been online for like, four days.”

The Constructicons huffed, somewhat offended, “We got each other. Nothing better to do, really, aside from hangin’ with you.”

The imagery was a little too wild for Bulkhead, and he had to shake his head slightly to get rid of it. He was still mildly confused, “I thought you guys liked sleek little cars! Curvy compacts and tiny speeders, you’re always hollering at ‘em, right?”

Scrapper shifted a little, before pointing at Bulkhead, “Well yeah, but Bulky, _look_ at ya. You’re curvy as the Pit.”

“Yeah and when you transform, it’s just…It’s just really…” that was Mixmaster, resetting his vocalizer a few times, finding it quite difficult to explain things. HIs hands were curling and uncurling into fists, like he wanted to touch, “You look really good. Noticed it for a while, and me and Scrapper talked about this, so we wanted to ask ya in case you’re, y’know, interested.”

Bulkhead looked down at himself, and threw his arms out in confusion, “But I’m huge!”

His friends glanced at each other, and shrugged, “That just means there’s more for us to grab at, yeah?”

It was almost too much for the Cybertronian. The proposition came out of nowhere and he hadn’t even considered anything like that for a while, and he could barely remember the last time he’d gotten intimate. But the sudden flare of Bulkhead’s spark, the licks of heat under his plating were intriguing.

Suddenly, it seemed like the idea wasn’t so bad at all. Bulkhead could use the release, and it was never easy to find mechs bigger than he was. They were all friends, but maybe the fact would make things even better. He was comfortable with Mixmaster and Scrapper. Interfacing wasn’t going to change that. Right?

If he didn’t like it, he’d just make them stop. By words or by force; he was the strongest, and with training, too; they’d stop and no one would mention what happened ever. And if it was good…well.

Bulkhead smiled a little, “You know what? Why not. It’s just a little fun, right?”

“Yeah!” Scrapper replied almost too enthusiastically, before looking sheepish, “Yeah. Uh. Alright, okay good, I guess we’ll just have to think about where and when—“

“Here? Right now?” Mixmaster looked at him, sounding almost incredulous, “We don’t gotta think about anythin’, mech, now’s fine. Right, Bulky?”

Glancing around, optics narrowed, Bulkhead turned back to his friends and laughed a little nervously, “Here and now is okay, but what if someone walks by? Some human, we can’t have ‘em reporting weird activity and if the news reaches Prime, I’m slagged!”

The cement mixer walked closer, earlier apprehension seemingly gone, replaced with an odd sort of eagerness instead, “Look, we can go there, no one’s gonna see us,” He pointed to somewhere a little farther than the edge of the docks, where colored containers were stacked up high, most likely cargo from a transport ship left overnight for storage on the next day. It was almost like a sheltered fortress.

It was perfect.

Bulkhead grinned at Mixmaster, then at Scrapper, before transforming again, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

The containers weren’t even that far away, but they had expressed appreciation for how he transformed, and Bulkhead always loved to please. It almost felt like a chase, the loud engines of the construction vehicles in hot pursuit behind him, his own frame thrumming from how fast he was going. It definitely didn’t take long to reach their destination, and Mixmaster and Scrapper transformed before Bulkhead did.

The moment the Autobot changed into his original form, there were hands on his frame, curling over his waist and sliding over the edges of his hip plating. Bulkhead laughed, feeling lightheaded more than anything, as they disappeared into the walls made of containers. There was the sky above them, but red and blue containers in their surroundings. It was good cover; Bulkhead had to hand Mixmaster some credit.

“So how are we doing this?” he asked, a little distracted by the expressions on his friends’ faces, “On the ground?”

“How about,” Scrapper interjected, fingers trailing over Bulkhead’s arm before walking towards a lone container closest to them and sat on it, pausing a moment, “Yeah, it’s gonna hold. Come here,” he patted his own lap, and Bulkhead raised an optic ridge before approaching Scrapper anyway.

He turned around and Scrapper’s arms slid around him, half-lifting him up as Bulkhead settled in between Scrapper’s legs. The Autobot shifted uncomfortably, “Wait, my kibble’s in the way.”

Scrapper aided him, lightly pushing the curved metal pieces to the sides, letting them stay there with Scrapper’s hands absently running over the edges. It had never been a particularly erogenous zone for Bulkhead, but the touch was certainly making him squirm now. Even more so when Scrapper dipped his head to scrape teeth over Bulkhead’s shoulder, over the white star painted there, “You fit perfect. Comfortable?”

‘Yeah, sort of,’ he wanted to reply jokingly, but Mixmaster had joined them and was running palms over Bulkhead’s plating with great fervour, rendering him temporary incapable of speech. He wasn’t sure if there was a time where anyone was as enthusiastic about him as his friends currently were, but it felt amazing and he wanted more.

Mixmaster even had his face against Bulkhead’s chest, fingers spread wide to curve along the expanse of his waist. The Constructicon seemed to be quite lost in the contact, and his exploring touches were sending fast-paced, heavy signals to Bulkhead’s sensory network, “Uh, um, Mix?”

“Let me take my time for a bit, okay?” he replied, dipping his thumbs in and out of Bulkhead’s front grill, “Frag, it’s like having a whole barrel of WD-40 in hand, your build is amazing.”

A gasp escaped him at the stimulation to his grill, and Bulkhead squirmed a little in confused pleasure, only to be held steady by Scrapper’s firm hands on his kibble, and the excavator was now invested in tracing the lines of his jaw hinge with a tongue. It was almost too much again, but Bulkhead couldn’t help huffing out in laughter, “Are you getting all poetic about my _chassis_?”

“Shut up!” Mixmaster spluttered in embarrassment as Scrapper laughed too, his forehead knocking against Bulkhead’s shoulder audibly, “What’s wrong with a mech appreciating a nice frame, huh?” The cement mixer pouted, despite the way his hands were gripping even harder at Bulkhead’s waist.

“Just teasing you, Mix, no hard feelings, okay?” he snickered, reaching over to tweak one of the tires on Mixmaster’s arms, “I’m flattered. Come on, touch all you want.” The words felt surreal coming out of his mouth; he had never thought he’d be saying something like that to anyone, ever, but Mixmaster took the invitation with much vigour. It wasn’t long before Mixmaster’s hands had moved lower, from his waist to his thighs, fingers playing over the plating close to the join of Bulkhead’s legs.

The Autobot had taken to reaching back for Scrapper’s shoulder guard for some form of an anchor, very aware how the touches had turned from appreciative to intimate. Mixmaster’s fingers finally brushed over the increasingly hot plating of Bulkhead’s interface panel, and the smirk on his faceplates was positively lewd.

“You gonna open up, Bulky?”

He did, dark green plating sliding back, his secondary covers exposing his valve before his spike. He wasn’t quite wet yet, nor fully pressurised, but that was quickly remedied by Mixmaster.

“Hey, nice,” he murmured, wrapping digits around the width of Bulkhead’s spike, thumbing at the neon green biolights flashing in a vertical row along the appendage’s underside, “Do all Cybertronians have spikes this pretty?”

Bulkhead needed to vent a while, steam rising from the slats on his front as well as from his mouth. “Mods. They were a p-popular thing a few decades back, I guess? So maybe.”

Scrapper took his mouth off of Bulkhead’s neck to crane his own forward, curious, “Hey mech, show me.” Despite Mixmaster’s efforts, Scrapper still couldn’t see, till the excavator took initiative and gripped under Bulkhead’s thighs to pull his legs apart. The Autobot’s legs were short and the gesture forced him to cant his hips a little, his pelvic plating in clear view. Bulkhead couldn’t really help looking away; face heating up at an alarming rate as the Constructicons apparently marvelled over his spike.

It wasn’t for long, as he felt sudden flat, strong pressure over his valve that made him gasp in surprise. Mixmaster was very close to his frame, looming over him, leaning to bite lightly at his jaw guard. The flat pressure was the Constructicon’s palm grinding up against the folds of his interface equipment and again, Bulkhead felt overwhelmed, suddenly very aware that his entire lower half was being manhandled some way or another.

Fingers were nudging over his opening now, and Mixmaster’s engine was rumbling loud enough that Bulkhead almost couldn’t catch his question, “I’m gonna open you up, yeah? Can I?”

“Yeah,” he answered with almost no hesitation, hands lifting over Mix’s shoulders, blunt digits grasping at the metal parts that made up the Constructicon’s kibble, “Yeah, do it.”

Scrapper took the liberty to let go of one of Bulkhead’s thigh to wrap his hand over the Autobot’s spike, arm propping the free leg up. He began squeezing right when Mixmaster pushed two fingers into Bulkhead, and it was a given that Bulkhead’s ventilations stuttered audibly, choking off a loud moan.

He arched his back, grating against Scrapper’s front, his optics offlined completely. He didn’t usually lubricate so much; just enough for things to go smoothly; but Mixmaster was pushing digits up against his valve walls as if coaxing for more. The Constructicon found out soon enough that he could move his hand around fairly easily, two fingers seeming to not take up much space at all. “Mech, you’re pretty roomy, aren’t you?”

Bulkhead made an offended noise, but the way he rolled his hips was telling, “It’s my frame. Was built this way, had to make us bottom heavy so we don’t…topple over or s-something. Everything’s bigger. I’ve had a whole hand in there. So, uh--. _Primus,_ ” his vocalizer clicked in obvious recalibration, “More, please.”

He didn’t notice Mixmaster and Scrapper exchanging glances in his pleasure, focusing instead on trying to buck into Scrapper’s hand.  His efforts were rewarded when Scrapper jerked at him hard and fast a few times, and Mixmaster decided not to prolong the foreplay by just sliding two extra fingers inside, spreading them.

“I think mine could fit too, you know,” he mused, but sounded apologetic, “But I really need to frag ya, Bulky. Don’t think I could wait much longer.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Bulkhead panted, “Next time. Get in me already, it’s been eons.”

It was either Bulkhead’s promise of another rendezvous, or the idea of Bulkhead not getting spiked for a while, but it made Mixmaster proceed, wiggling his fingers one last time before pulling them out, haphazardly wiping the mess over Bulkhead’s thigh. There was the sound of a panel retracting, and Bulkhead looked down to see Mixmaster’s spike pressing up against his own. It wasn’t as long as Bulkhead’s, but large and thick and felt divine against his spike, and Bulkhead really wanted it inside of him.

His legs were already spread impossibly wide, but he reached back to grip at Scrapper and pushed his hips up, as if displaying himself, “Mix.”

“Alright, alright,” chuffed the cement mixer, but ran his hands over Bulkhead’s frame a few times in constant appreciation. Soon enough he guided himself in; Scrapper’s hand on Bulkhead’s spike had migrated down to keep the Autobot open for his entry; and Mix didn’t stop moving forward till he was fully sheathed inside.

The friction of the spike sliding over charged valve nodes was amazing.

Bulkhead was smiling. He was quite relieved that the pulsing need in his valve was alleviated somewhat with the pressure and heat of Mixmaster’s spike, and didn’t feel too desperate anymore. It was good. He felt great.

Great enough to finally reciprocate, flexing his valve calipers and turning his head to mouth at Scrapper’s jaw, scraping his own against the metal lightly. Scrapper still had his hand on Bulkhead’s spike, and Mixmaster had paused a while, juddering hard, probably trying really hard not to come.

“You okay there mech?” Scrapper asked, somewhat distracted by Bulkhead’s mouth but still quite concerned. Bulkhead purposely rippled his valve again so that Mixmaster panted out steam, optics flickering with the intense pleasure.

“I’m uh, I’m okay. Trying to think of somethin’ not sexy.  Bulky’s trying to squeeze the life outta me.”

Scrapper gave Bulkhead a disapproving look, “Hey you. Stop that.”

“Stop what?” the Autobot asked, faceplates the picture of innocence, “This?” he leaned and bumped jaw guards with Scrapper again, tilting his head to scrape teeth over the green metal before continuing, “Or this?”

A pathetic whine left Mixmaster, the lights on his chest flashing once, twice, before he shut them down forcibly via a command. The look on his faceplates was pitiful, truly, so Bulkhead ceased messing with him, letting the walls of his valve relax around Mixmaster’s spike.

“That. I like the thing you’re doing to me just fine, obviously,” Scrapper snickered, before absently squeezing the plating of Bulkhead’s thigh in his grip, “So, uh. Do you think I could fit in there, too?”

It took a while for Bulkhead to comprehend, but he froze, blue optics wide as he turned to stare at Scrapper, “What?”

He was definitely startled, and Scrapper made an effort to wrap his arms around Bulkhead in reassurance, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna, but it sounds like it could be fun, y’know? Considering your frame and all.”

“I’ve never…uh, never had _two_ before,” Bulkhead mumbled, obviously considering the idea with much hesitation, “I’m not sure…”

“Hey, if it’s too much then we’d stop right away, same rules as before. We could try, if you want. I definitely wanna,” Scrapper rested his chin over Bulkhead’s shoulder, looking surprisingly patient yet eager. Bulkhead paused, chewing his lower lip component in thought.

What did he have to lose anyway? And where else was he going to find two mechs larger than he was? Why wait for another opportunity?

“Okay, let’s do it,” he vented, smiling slightly, “I want to know what it’s like, anyway.”

Scrapper grinned and expressed his gratitude with a little nuzzle to the side of Bulkhead’s face, before leaning over the Autobot’s shoulder again, “Ey Mix, you good to go?”

Mixmaster huffed out steam, but leaned to bump his own face against the other side of Bulkhead’s own, “Yeah. ‘M good.”

“Okay then, give me a hand,” the excavator used both hands to slide them under Bulkhead’s thighs, and Mixmaster aided him, spike half slipping out of Bulkhead’s valve. In the movement, Bulkhead had to reach out, arms over Mix’s shoulders to stabilize himself. There was the sound of another panel sliding open, and Scrapper’s spike was solid heat against Bulkhead’s aft.

Bulkhead looked down to catch sight of it; it was longer and leaner than Mixmaster’s, even longer than his and suddenly he was a little unsure if he could take both of them at once. But he noticed that Mixmaster’s front piece had begun to rotate slowly; an involuntary action; probably as an indication of his excitement.

“You ready, Bulky?” Scrapper asked, and eagerness was almost a tangible thing in his voice.

Bulkhead relented, and steeled himself, “Yes.”

He was lowered, slowly, Mixmaster distracting him by leaning forward to mouth at his faceplates, making it so that even their lip components collided a few times. Bulkhead couldn’t help laughing at the pecks to his face, finding it almost ridiculous till he felt the head of Scrapper’s spike pushing against his valve.

Mixmaster was already fully inside him again, and the cement mixer’s spike was pushed against his anterior wall, forced to make room as Scrapper’s spike slid in him slowly, his parted walls stretching even more for the new intrusion.

“Oh,” Bulkhead vented, optics wide and bright, “ _Oh._ ”

It was almost excessive, Scrapper’s spike reaching in deep, deeper than Mixmaster’s had, up to the point where Bulkhead was whimpering, stunned by sensation. His valve struggled to accommodate; having never taking two spikes before; spiralling down on the combined girth in it again and again, and they pulled him lower still. Mixmaster’s spike stayed where it was, but Bulkhead’s descent made its presence very prominent. It was intense pressure pushing at the front of his valve, and he was losing his mind.

His aft met Scrapper’s plating soon enough, and he was too full for words. Scrapper had leaned over his shoulder again, and Mixmaster was venting hard over the span of his chest. Lip components were almost lazy and slow along the slope of his shoulder, “You good, Bulky? Wanna wait?”

“ _No_ ,” he gasped in reply, the pressure on the forefront of his processor, his desperation loud and clear, “Move, oh Primus please, move, you gotta move!”

That seemed to have taken the Constructicons by surprise, but Mixmaster moved fast, pulling his hips back and pushed in again, thrusting into Bulkhead at a pace. Scrapper rolled his own hips, a feat quite difficult from his sitting position under Bulkhead, but it made his spike grind and cant towards and against some really deep nodes and Bulkhead couldn’t even dream of complaining.

Bliss. He dropped his head back, feeling incredibly stuffed, and yet Mixmaster’s spike kept sliding in and out of him. He could feel the two spikes rubbing up against each other, the lips of his valve stretched tight around them, lubricant and transfluid leaking from his valve, their interfacing resulting in muffled, wet noises.

Bulkhead was in rapture, half-squirming at how he felt incredibly, indescribably small, for once. Scrapper’s arms were wrapped around him, a constraint, and Mixmaster’s larger form were shadows that came and went, their fields like a blanket over him. He could lose himself in their presence, and realized that the thought was very tempting.

“Frag,” Scrapper groaned next to his audial, releasing Bulkhead’s frame to grab under his thighs again. Without warning, he was lifted, and Mixmaster’s thrust hit an entirely different angle inside him, his spike pressed up against his own abdomen. At the grip, Bulkhead let go of Mixmaster’s shoulder to reach down and take hold of his bobbing spike, knuckles scraping against Mixmaster’s moving frame.

Scrapper was bodily lifting him up and down again, the two spikes sliding up into him simultaneously, again and again and Bulkhead’s engine was rumbling extremely loud, the pleasure clouding his processor. His digits curled to tug at himself, working himself up into a frenzy, jaw dropping open as steam rose in puffs from his mouth.

It took him three more deep thrusts, Scrapper practically dropping him on their spikes; Mixmaster snapping his hips up like nothing else mattered and Bulkhead overloaded, yelling static as transfluid spurted from his spike in short, thick bursts. His valve clamped down on Mixmaster and Scrapper, the walls rippling as his circuitry went aflame, his whole chassis shuddering harshly in his climax.

Mixmaster came next, clutching at Bulkhead hard enough to scrape slivers of olive paint from the Autobot’s shoulders, pushing his hips in hard as he groaned frantic nothings into Bulkhead’s audial. Scrapper fragged them through it, before finally giving in with a shout at the feel of Mixmaster’s transfluid coating his spike, and Bulkhead’s walls clenching around him in demand.

The heat coming off of their frames was blistering, but no one moved for a while, save for the loud whirring of cooling fans and overworked engines. There wasn’t a thought in Bulkhead’s processor, his mind was void of anything, and he basked in the emptiness for a while.

Eventually Scrapper reached over to push at Mixmaster’s clinging frame, his voice turned into a low burr from the charge he just expelled, “Off. Out, mech, come on.”

The cement mixer obliged, too spent to even protest, pulling out of Bulkhead slowly before falling on his aft on the ground. Scrapper patted Bulkhead’s waist and he got the message, sighing once before lifting himself up from Scrapper’s limp spike, wincing as he does so. It didn’t hurt, but it sure felt uncomfortable.

Standing on his feet almost seemed like a chore, his legs bowing as fluids dribbled from his stretched valve, running down his thighs. Bulkhead made a noise of surprised distaste, but closed his panel and solved the problem. His equipment still felt thoroughly used, but it was a good, tingling feeling, despite the wet, sticky mess he sported between his legs. It didn’t matter. Not at the moment.

From the floor, just a little further from the container they were on, Mixmaster lifted an arm and gestured Bulkhead closer, his yellow optics very much dim, “C’mere.”

Almost strutless, Bulkhead fell to his knees and crawled over, allowing Mixmaster’s arms to wind around his frame before tugging him down to the ground. He opened his mouth to say something but had his face subsequently pressed to Mixmaster’s chest, the cement mixer curling around him in an embrace, and he decided he could wait.

Scrapper joined them soon enough, slotting his front against Bulkhead’s back. They were filthy and really needed to clean up, but Bulkhead decided he couldn’t care less. There was a body of water nearby anyway, they could do that later.

“We should do this again,” he mumbled, lifting his head a little from Mixmaster’s plating, “Like, in a few days. When I’ve actually recovered from you guys sticking two spikes in me.”

Scrapper snorted while Mixmaster shook a little with laughter, and the excavator mock punched Bulkhead’s shoulder, “But it was good, right? Right?”

He hummed, lulled by Mixmaster’s arm around him, “Yeah. Good. Very good.”

Recharge was imminent, and Bulkhead sent a simple comm. to Prime informing that he’d be returning to their base late tonight, the same comm. he had been sending for a few night cycles now. He really enjoyed being in the Constructicons’ company, and it seemed like they really enjoyed being in his, too.

There wasn’t a thought about Cybertron, or Earth, or the Decepticon threat nor were there his usual ruminations about himself or space bridges, and Bulkhead fell asleep feeling fairly content. He was happy.


End file.
